


foggy mirror

by crypticgemini



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Spencer Reid, Gen, Heavy Angst, Panic Attacks, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypticgemini/pseuds/crypticgemini
Summary: The air is ringing and he can't gulp it down. How is the air ringing?





	foggy mirror

Glass shatters on the tiled kitchen floor around him as the wave of dizziness causes him to lose his grip. Water pools at his feet soaking his wool socks and his hands are suddenly slammed against his ears. He can hear everything. They run through his mind so fast that he can barely keep up with the thoughts. Tap water, grinding teeth, laughter upstairs, dog barking outside, pipes squealing behind the walls, some lunatic whimpering nearby. All his senses collapse down on top of him until it becomes too much.

He’s sliding down the cabinets and sitting on the floor now, his hands still on his head though it does nothing to help him. It’s merely a placebo effect, there only to provide a false sense of control over the situation and he is well aware of this fact but he does it anyway, pushing against his ears so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if he crushes his own skull with the action. The air is ringing and he can’t gulp it down. How is the air ringing? The taste of metal washes through him now and it occurs to him that he has probably bitten his own tongue in the midst of his panic. He thinks he might throw up. His stomach lurches and yeah, he’s going to throw up.

Sharp glass slices up his hands as he pushes himself off of the ground and begins to scramble out of the kitchen and down the hall. He throws the bathroom door open and doesn’t even bother to turn on the light before he’s down on his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He’s heaving and heaving again though nothing else is coming up, his tongue stinging like hell from the stomach acid touching where he bit it. Metal is washed away by the taste of the bile and now he’s crying. Warm tears run down his face as his knees give out from under him and his back hits the wall. The aching pain in his knees makes itself known when he pulls his legs to his chest and sobs into them as he slowly rocks himself. The action calms him enough that he’s able to search his mind for ways to stop panic attacks. 

Breath in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He knows this one well enough that he feels stupid for not remembering it the second he started feeling off. He grabs at his hair and inhales through his nose, holds it, and then breathes out through his mouth with an exaggerated whoosh. Slightly damp denim from his tears brushes against his cheeks as he rocks back and forth while breathing. This whole situation probably looks silly. A grown ass man crying in his bathroom in the middle of the day. Part of him says it’s pathetic that he’s still having these attacks, but he knows that he can’t get rid of them. 

He tries to think of anything that had happened that could have triggered the panic but he comes up blank as his breathing slowly returns to normal. Pushing himself off the floor once again he stumbles towards the bathroom sink, trying to ignore the pulsing muscles in his legs making every step a slight challenge. His fingers grip the ceramic while his breath evens out and he lifts his head up to look into the mirror. There, staring back at him is a man with dark bags under his eyes and an empty expression. 

When that man closes his eyes, he sees himself holding a shovel. When that man closes his eyes, he sees himself plunging that shovel into the wet earth. When that man closes his eyes, he sees himself holding a revolver and he knows deep down that that gun holds only one bullet.

When Spencer Reid opens his eyes, he sees himself in the bathroom mirror. He turns on the tap and washes his hands carefully, making sure to wash the small cuts from the glass. He splashes his face with a little bit of water and shakes it off. He flushes the toilet without looking at it, and he exits the bathroom.

When Spencer Reid opens his eyes, he sees himself in his bedroom, sitting on his bed. He tugs off his damp socks and changes from his suit pants and a button-up shirt to his less constricting sweats and a baggy t-shirt. 

When Spencer Reid opens his eyes, he sees himself standing in his kitchen holding a broom and a dustpan. He sweeps up the shards of glass that lay scattered on the tile floor and deposits it into the trash bin. He walks towards the closet in the hallway and exchanges his broom for the mop and walks back to the kitchen to mop up the small pool of water.

When Spencer Reid opens his eyes, he is sitting on his sofa in his living room with the record player on. The sound of Frédéric Chopin’s Étude Op. 10, No. 1 pours through the room as he sinks back into the plush pillows around him.

 

When Spencer Reid closes his eyes, he breathes.


End file.
